


On Mornings

by youaremarvelous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Domestic, Fluff, It's mostly fluff I promise, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Series, Tickle Fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:03:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9484160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremarvelous/pseuds/youaremarvelous
Summary: A series of drabbles concerning the mornings spent during Viktor and Yuuri's engagement.





	

The first time Yuuri wakes up next to Viktor, it takes him almost a full minute to remember that this is, in fact, reality, and not just a wishful fabrication of his still sleep-addled brain. The realization sets his heart rocketing, his tired mind clearing almost instantly of the cloudy remnants of sleep.

 

He creeps a hand forward—curling his fingers over the edge where their two mattresses meet— and imagines what it might be like if this line of demarcation didn’t exist. If Viktor was sleeping not only by his side but in his bed.

 

Yuuri spots the gold on his finger—glinting even in the pale blue light of early morning—and jerks his hand back, cradling it protectively against his chest. He leans his chin to his breast and reels silently in the dark, rocked by embarrassment.

 

There is too high a possibility that Viktor only accepted the ring to appease him. He should never have offered it on the night before a competition. Even his confession had been vague and ungainly. The ring feels good on his finger—the weight of it comforting—but what does it really mean?

 

What does it mean to _Viktor_?

 

Yuuri tilts his head up again, squinting at Viktor as though his sleeping face will reveal his thoughts. Yuuri doesn’t gain much insight from his furtive staring, though he does appreciatively note the splay of lashes over Viktor’s high cheekbones and the barest hint of collarbone peeking from his loose shirt.

 

Yuuri considers taking his phone out to snap a quick picture. It’s just a keepsake, he tells himself, and definitely not at all creepy. It’d just be nice to have proof that this was all real. That for almost a year, Yuuri—anxious Yuuri with his flubbed jumps and stress eating and and overactive tear ducts—had managed to capture Viktor’s time and attention.     

 

Yuuri searches his hand around the bed, trying to locate his phone. He finds it half-wedged under his pillow and pulls it out, angling it towards Viktor’s face with trembling hands. He hovers his finger over the shutter and presses his lips together, swallowing thickly. Yuuri has just psyched himself up enough to snap the picture when Viktor shifts in his sleep, mumbling incoherently and flipping over to face the far wall.

 

Yuuri nearly drops his phone in his frenzy to hide it. He lays there unmoving—the cold glass of the screen pressed against his chest—willing his heart to curb into a reasonable rhythm.

 

‘ _Okay_ ,’ Yuuri decides with a shaky breath, ‘ _this is a sign from the universe_.’

 

He checks to make sure his alarm is still set and stows his phone on the nightstand. The memory is enough, anyway. He doesn’t want to be too greedy.  

 

+

 

Yuuri wakes later that morning, reality ebbing and flowing around him. The alarm isn’t sounding, so he keeps his eyes shut, coveting every second of blissful unconsciousness he can afford. A hand combs through his hair—cold, but comforting—and he nuzzles into the touch, uncharacteristically unguarded in his half-asleep state.

 

He starts to drift off again, unsure if the shutter sound he hears is real or a fabrication of his guilty conscience.

 

+

 

“Viktor,” Yuuri whispers. He tries to push himself up by his elbows, but immediately flops back down, pinned to the mattress beneath the weight of his fiancé’s limp body.

 

“Viktor,” he tries again, angling his elbow to poke Viktor in the side. “Please, I think I’m dying.”

 

Viktor hums and shifts, tightening his hold around Yuuri’s shoulders. “Mmm Yura, you’re so warm.” He mumbles against Yuuri’s neck, upsetting the fine black hairs on his nape with the oppressive warmth of his breath.

 

Yuuri blinks back the stinging salty sweat catching in his eyelashes. “You, too,” he gasps through his compressed lungs. “You’re too hot.”

 

Viktor hums low in his throat and scrapes his teeth lightly against the top notch of Yuuri’s spine. “Someone’s feisty this morning.”

 

“N-no. No!” Yuuri chokes. “I mean literally—temperature wise.“ He squirms, panting miserably. “Please, I’m melting.”

 

Viktor’s eyes widen in realization and he rolls over, finally freeing his fiancé from his sweat-soaked grave.

 

+

 

“Han’ me the toothpaste”

 

“You already used it, solnyshko.” Viktor grips Yuuri’s wrist gently, helping him move his toothbrush bristles under the faucet. “There you go, all ready for brushing,” He smiles, ruffling Yuuri’s hair when he finally moves the toothbrush to his mouth.

 

Yuuri brushes with his eyes closed and leans his head on Viktor’s shoulder, his rhythm slowing as he drifts back to sleep.

 

“Someone’s tired this morning, hmm?” Viktor bumps Yuuri’s shoulder with his own. Yuuri straightens back up with a sharp intake of breath and resumes his brushing.

 

“Up worrying yourself into the early hours again?” Viktor asks. He squeezes some toothpaste onto his own toothbrush and joins his fiancé in brushing his teeth. Yuuri doesn’t respond so Viktor slides his cold hand up the back of his shirt, tracing the shallow notches of his spine with his thumb.

 

Yuuri shudders and yawns around his toothbrush. Bubbling white foam drips down his chin and splatters on the sink and Viktor snickers and pulls him into his side, tucking Yuuri’s head under his chin.

 

“You know you can always wake me up if you can’t sleep,” he reminds, absentmindedly brushing Yuuri’s hair back from his forehead.

 

“Nn. No. That wasn’t it.” Yuuri mumbles, his voice still raspy with the last remaining dregs of sleep. He blinks open his swollen eyes and blearily rubs a wrist across his face. “Your snoring kept me up.”

 

+

 

“Yura, that’s so mean,” Viktor whines for the twentieth time that morning. “I definitely don’t snore. Do I, Makkachin?” He crouches next to the dog, leaning his ear to his panting mouth.

 

“Makkachin says, ‘no,’” Viktor informs, scratching the poodle under his chin.

 

Yuuri retrieves orange juice from the fridge and closes the door with his foot. “He’s just protecting your ego,” he says, pouring himself and Viktor a glass. “Do you want me to record it next time?”

 

Viktor pads into the kitchen and pokes Yuuri in the side on his way to the pantry. “There won’t be a next time because _I don’t snore_.”

 

+

 

“I can’t believe I snore.”

 

Yuuri’s head is resting on Viktor’s shoulder, his eyes half-lidded as he holds up his phone. The screen is dark—the video recorded in the dead of night—but the noise emanating from it is loud and unearthly, a guttural groan that tapers off into a wet, warbling snort. The sound crackles out along the edges, too loud to stand up to the limitation of the phone’s speakers.  

 

Viktor shakes his head, his eyes wide. “You altered this footage, didn’t you? There’s no way that’s me. It sounds like a donkey wrestling with a demon possessed bear.”

 

Yuuri laughs sleepily, pausing the video and flopping his arm down over his stomach. “It’s all you, I’m afraid.” Yuuri yawns so wide the outer corner of his eyes are dotted with tears. “I’m so _tired_.” He stretches hard, his limbs going rigid and shaking.

 

“How can you be so calm about this?” Viktor takes the phone from Yuuri’s hand and moves to delete the video. “You’re going to marry a man that makes the sounds of a vomiting frog in his sleep.”

 

Yuuri turns on his side and scoots so close his eyelashes brush the slope of Viktor’s cheek. “Mmm but I still love you.” He smiles lightly. “It’s nothing compared to your farts, anyway.”

 

+

 

“I surrender, I’m sorry!” Yuuri chokes out the words around a peal of laughter. He squirms wildly, trying to hide his face in his pillow, but is held firmly in place—pinned at the hips between Viktor’s legs.

 

“I don’t know”— Viktor draws his hands back and tips his head in faked contemplation—“I don’t think you mean it.”

 

“I do! I do!” Yuuri pushes at Viktor’s shoulder and then gives up and pulls his arms in, shielding his ticklish armpits from his fiancé’s roving fingers. “I take it back!”

 

Viktor lifts his hands from his fiancé’s sides and hums with a devious smile. “Is that so?” He asks, leaning down so they are nose to nose. “Then how do you intend to make it up to me?”

 

Yuuri flushes deeply and lifts his head to peck Viktor’s lips. Viktor sighs—satisfied with his answer—and lowers his head, deepening the kiss.

 

“Vitya,” Yuuri whines into Viktor’s mouth, grasping a hand into the front of his shirt.

 

Viktor groans in response, nipping at his plush lower lip. Yuuri’s breathing deepens below him, fogging up the bottom of his glasses, and Viktor pulls back to survey him—mussed hair and red cheeks, eyes heavy lidded with arousal.

 

He licks at his swollen lips before bending back down. “Yura,” Viktor’s voice is a whisper, the warmth of it strokes Yuuri’s cheek and makes him shiver. Yuuri purses his lips slightly in anticipation and Viktor presses his mouth against them, giggling a little before blowing a loud, wet raspberry on his fiancé’s mouth.  

 

Yuuri jerks back with a squeak—his eyes doubling in size—and Viktor laughs wickedly and rolls to the side, finally freeing his partner from beneath his weight.

 

“Vitya!” Yuuri swats his fiancé’s arm when he recovers, vigorously wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist.

 

“That was payback,” Viktor grabs Yuuri by the collar, pulling him into another deep kiss. “And that,” he draws back with a smile, “is for putting up with me.”

 

+

 

“Vitya, _really?_ ” Yuuri covers his face with his hands, but it does little to hide the deep flush crawling up his ears and neck.

 

“Shh,” Viktor commands. “It’s trying to tell me something.” He pushes up Yuuri’s shirt and presses an ear to his stomach. “What is it, little belly?”

 

Yuuri’s stomach burbles in response and Viktor laughs and absently trails his fingers over the shiny shallow stretchmarks streaking his fiancé’s hips. “Was that really so important it couldn’t wait till morning?”

 

Yuuri groans and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I told you ice cream before bed was a bad idea.”

 

Viktor looks up, his face screwed in poorly feigned irritation. “Hush, Yura,” he scolds. “This is a private conversation.”

 

+

 

Yuuri lifts the wire table fan from its packaging. “This is the best idea you’ve ever had.” He tells Viktor, searching on hands and knees for an outlet to plug it into.

 

Viktor huffs from where he is spread out on the bed, head propped in his hand. “Even better than my idea to coach you?”

 

Yuuri clicks the fan to high and squints against the spinning blades. His eyes dry instantly but the sound is sufficiently loud—he can barely hear his fiancé’s griping over the turbulent whooshing air.

 

Yuuri tilts his chin to the ceiling, considering. “Mmm wasn’t that _my_ idea,” he teases, setting his glasses on the nightstand next to the fan and climbing on to the bed.

 

Viktor smiles when Yuuri pulls up the sheet and settles himself against him. “It doesn’t count if you don’t remember it,” he says, folding his arms over his fiancé’s shoulders and pulling him closer.  

 

+

 

Viktor is surprised to find Yuuri still in bed when he finishes his shower. He pads across the floor to his lifeless lump of a fiancé and leans over him, crystal water droplets dripping from his hair to dot Yuuri’s cheeks. Viktor bends and kisses them away, moving down to place a gentle peck against his fiancé’s lips.

 

“Mmmrph Vitya,” Yuuri complains into his mouth. “You have morning breath.”

 

Viktor smiles and nuzzles his nose into the crown of Yuuri’s head. “Well, solnyshko, despite your best efforts to sleep past it, it _is_ morning.”

 

Yuuri moans pitiably and tries to pull the comforter over his head, but Viktor’s knows his fiancé’s tricks and keeps a firm hold on them. “Is the fan not working?” He asks, rubbing a thumb across the creases on Yuuri’s forehead. “I thought you said it was doing a good job of drowning out my snoring.”

 

Yuuri sighs and drapes an arm over his face. “It is,” he mumbles into the crook of his elbow.

 

‘ _So what is it then_ ,’ Viktor wonders, handing Yuuri his glasses when he sits up with a yawn.

 

+

 

Viktor wakes suddenly. A choking breath shudders through his chest and he reaches his hand out blindly, searching for comfort in his fiancé’s sleeping form. He pats the cold mattress beside him, heartbeat revving with fear. “Yura?” He sits up too fast, his vision burning out along the edges.

 

There is no reply—only the sound of Makkachin’s nails clacking on cement floors—so he tries again, louder this time. “Yura? Where are you, lyubov moya?”

 

“I’m here, I’m—” Yuuri’s voice sounds, but it’s distant—pinched—as though his lungs are locked in a snare trap.

 

Viktor knows what this is. He barely has time to register the thought before he has flung himself from the bed, tripping over his own feet and nearly braining himself on the nightstand in his frenzy to be at his fiancé’s side.   

 

Viktor turns on the bedroom light and—finding no sign of Yuuri—rushes out the door to the living room. “Yura?” He half-whispers, scanning his eyes back and forth, trying to find a Yuuri-shaped shadow in the inky black twilight.

 

There is a croaking noise of words strangled in a dry throat and Viktor follows it—an audible breadcrumb trail in the dark—flipping on lights as he goes.

 

He finds Yuuri sitting on the kitchen floor, leaned against the kitchen cabinets with his sneakers on and untied. He winces against the sudden illumination, hiding his eyes behind his wrist.

 

“What happened?” Viktor frets, dropping to his knees at Yuuri’s side and cupping his cheek in his hand. “You’re freezing cold.”

 

Yuuri shakes his head, unable to convince his clumsy tongue to form the words. “Sorry,” he manages, wrapping his trembling fingers around Viktor’s forearm. His grip is loose and pliant—his golden skin drained into a worrying shade of milky white.

 

“None of that.” Viktor rubs up and down Yuuri’s goose pimpled biceps, trying to encourage some warmth into his limbs. “Were you outside?”

 

Yuuri nods, his chest heaving with the effort of drawing air into his stubborn lungs. “I went running,” he pants, licking at the cracking corners of his mouth.

 

“Running? Yurochka, it’s—” Viktor looks up at the oven—“4am.”

 

Yuuri curls his fingers into the loose fabric on Viktor’s knee.

 

“And you’re wearing pajama pants.” Viktor continues, tracing a thumb over Yuuri’s pale knuckles. “And your hair looks like it was styled by Makkachin.”

 

Yuuri coughs out a laugh. “Does it look that bad?” He asks, lifting his chin to meet Viktor’s face. Viktor can only just make out his eyes—bloodshot but dry— behind the glare of the kitchen lights on his glasses lenses.

 

It probably does look bad, but Viktor is too far-gone to be an impartial judge. He loves Yuuri too much to see anything but the heaviness of his heart reflected back in those syrup sweet eyes.

 

“You’re cold,” he tells him, instead, grasping both of Yuuri’s faintly juddering hand in his and helping him from the floor. “How about a hot bath to warm you up?”

 

+

 

“You doing okay, solnyshko?” Viktor turns his book face down on his knees and reaches over the side of the tub to massage Yuuri’s calf.

 

Yuuri doesn’t open his eyes but nods contentedly, the slight movement of his chin forming shallow ripples in the warm bathwater.

 

Viktor smiles fondly and taps his phone to the next song when a bombastic Russian composition builds beneath the small speakers. Gymnopédie no. 1 starts up next, slow and soothing, and Yuuri sighs and sinks further—the water settling just beneath the curve of his bottom lip.

 

Viktor’s heart feels too big for his chest as he watches his fiancé, silent and peaceful, black hair a halo of blue morning light. “Do you want me to wash your hair, lyubov moya?” He asks softly, dog-earing his page and placing the book on the toilet seat.

 

Yuuri peeks an eye open and offers Viktor a gentle smile. The tops of his cheekbones are dusted with a pretty pink blush—from the heat of the bath or simple affection, Viktor doesn’t know.

 

“No,” Yuuri says finally, his voice as gentle as the soft patter of snow against the bathroom window. “Just stay?”  

 

It’s posed as a question, though Viktor has no idea why. Nothing short of Armageddon could get him to leave this spot on the bathroom floor, safeguarding his fiancé’s peaceful moment against the trembling grip of his anxiety. He leans forward on his knees and wraps a hand around the side of Yuuri’s head, pressing a chaste kiss into his temple. “Of course,” he lingers, smoothing back the damp hairs from Yuuri’s forehead and kissing him again.

 

Yuuri doesn’t reply, and Viktor doesn’t expect him to. He settles back in his spot near Yuuri’s feet, picks up his book, and pretends not to notice the bright red flush spreading up his fiancé’s neck.

 

+

 

“Yuuri.”

 

Viktor’s face is inches from Yuuri’s face when he finally opens his eyes. His hair is bed-rumpled, his eyes wide and wild, and he’s holding Makkachin’s leash in a white knuckled grip.

 

“He won’t wake up.” Viktor’s voice cracks in the middle, his frantic expression dissolving into one of intense despair.

 

Yuuri scrambles upright—the sheets tangling around his legs—and pulls Viktor’s face into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Vitechka,” he shushes. He rubs soft circles into Viktor’s back, his shoulder growing wet from his fiancé’s tears.  

 

They knew Makkachin didn’t have long. He was old and his liver had been giving him trouble for a while. The vet had warned them to prepare themselves, that death was imminent, but they had both held out hope for a little more time—for one more family vacation to Hasetsu, at least.

 

In retrospect, no amount of time would’ve ever been enough.

 

The morning seems darker knowing this light has been stolen from the world. Yuuri squints his way out of the bedroom, trailing his fingers against the wall to find his way. Even in the frail light, he finds Makkachin’s body curled up in his favorite dog bed in the living room, having long since grown too arthritic to make it into his humans’ bed without help. Yuuri bends and pats his head, silently wiping at his own tears.

 

He is determined to be strong for Viktor. Still, the pain is there—burning his entrails with the dark ache of grief. His heartbeat is audible—the sound of heavy rain against frozen roads.

 

“Good boy,” Yuuri chokes, licking briny tears from the crest of his lips. He breathes deeply and—with trembling hands—covers Makkachin’s body with the white sheet stolen from their bed. It’s still warm from his and Viktor’s bodies. Yuuri hopes that would make Makkachin happy.

 

The thought sends him reeling.

 

+

 

It’s been a week since Makkachin’s passing. Viktor has taken up the habit of moving to the living room in the night. Yuuri doesn’t question him. In some ways, he understands the impulse.

 

It was no more Viktor’s fault that Makkachin had died alone than it was Yuuri’s fault Vicchan had been hit by a car, but guilt is a dragging tide and grief has to run its course.

 

Yuuri isn’t surprised when he wakes up alone again. He flips off the fan and gathers up the bedding in his arms, carrying it all to the couch—blankets trailing behind him like a bridal train.

 

Viktor is awake when Yuuri tucks the comforter around him, and he reaches out both arms to his fiancé, grasping his perpetually warm body to him like a length of rope in the dark.

 

+

 

“It’s your turn to take her out,” Viktor groans into his pillow, pressing a frozen foot against the small of Yuuri’s back.

 

Yuuri yelps and nearly rolls off the bed in his attempt to escape his finacé’s icy limbs. “She’s your dog,” Yuuri whines back, but he reaches for his glasses from the nightstand, anyway.

 

Viktor’s already snoring by the time Yuuri clips the leash onto their new puppy’s collar. “C’mon, girl,” he beckons tiredly. He tucks her under his arm and slips on his sneakers at the door, trudging down the cold stairwell to the patch of grass outside their apartment building.

 

“Let’s go potty quick this time, okay?” Yuuri’s voice comes out a tired rasp as the little dog scratches at the ground and bounces over to sniff at a dirty snow drift.

 

He tilts his head, smiling fondly despite his exhaustion. It had been a while since either he or Viktor had been forced to potty train a dog, but all things told, life is better with her. It had been hard at first, neither of them wanted to feel as if they were replacing Makkachin, but it had been months since his death and the absence of a pet had been weighing on them both.

 

Still, they might’ve waited longer if they hadn’t stumbled across her quite by accident while out grocery shopping. The store was hosting an adoption fair by a local shelter, and Yuuri had convinced Viktor to stop by and check it out—if for nothing more than some much needed doggy cuddles. Of course, when they had laid eyes on her—a little poodle, miniature schnauzer mix—it had been love at first sight. They were drawing up the adoption papers only minutes after meeting her.

 

Yuuri is startled from his thoughts when his coat is settled over his shoulders. “Vitechka,” he gasps, pressing a hand to his heart. “I thought you were sleeping.”

 

Viktor exhales, his breath dispersing in a hazy cloud of vapor. “You were taking too long,” he explains, threading his fingers through the curling hairs at the nape of Yuuri’s neck. “I was worried.”

 

“T-taking too long—?” Yuuri begins, because _honestly_ , it hasn’t been more than a couple of minutes. But Viktor has already left his side to hunch down beside their puppy, whispering sweet encouragements when she lowers herself into a squat.

 

+

 

The first thing Viktor notices when he wakes is that he is unusually warm—his head muzzy and distantly aching. He sits up on his elbows and squints, trying to recall the events of the previous night; but the aqueous memories slip through his fingers like a sieve, pooling behind his eyes in disjointed tableaus.

 

Their fan is gone, the dark blue comforter has turned a buttery shade of yellow, and their thick, blackout curtains have been replaced with a white, gauzy set that floats in the breeze of the open window.  

 

Memory descends in a rush: a night of heavy drinking, stumbling up too many flights of stairs, Yuuri’s body hot and flushed and tasting of salt and something floral. Ripping off each others clothes in the doorway because they couldn’t make it to the bed, Yuuri trailing his nails down Viktor’s back, the sound of his name sounding so sweet on Yuuri’s tongue, Viktor fears his mind might be gone for good—melted into the creases of each catching syllable.

 

The rising sun leans into their hotel suite, illuminating each of Yuuri’s baby hairs in a warm golden halo. The sight is so rare and so tender, Viktor thinks for a moment that he could cry.

 

It’s most likely due to the alcohol. He has a tenuous grip on his emotions at the best of times—his true feelings safeguarded behind fake smiles and polite words. But this love is like nothing he has ever known before. It’s overwhelming and all encompassing—it tingles from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head.

 

 _'This is my forever_ ,’ he thinks, reaching to grasp Yuuri’s pliant hand—to study the glinting gold of his ring in the light.

 

 _'This is_ _my husband_.’

**Author's Note:**

> please come talk victuuri headcanons with me over at my [tumblr](https://youremarvelous.tumblr.com/)


End file.
